


Of Archers and SHIELD Agents

by NeverAndAlways



Series: Rewrites [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Childbirth, Clint Swears, Domestic Avengers, Gen, M/M, Married Couple, Mpreg, Protective Phil Coulson, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-29 17:32:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5136530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverAndAlways/pseuds/NeverAndAlways
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A (sort-of-but-not-exactly) rewrite of 'Of Family and HYDRA and Bad Decisions'. How things would have gone if the HYDRA attack didn't happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Morning in the Avengers tower. It's as busy as any other time of day, with Agents bustling around like ants and experiments running on every other floor. And on this particular morning something caught fire in Dr. Banner's lab, so there's even more excitement than usual.

Until you go up to the residence floor. Up here, it's quiet - more so than almost anywhere else in the Tower. Nearly all the apartments are empty this morning; their occupants are on assignment or elsewhere, save for one.

Clint Barton is just barely conscious. He woke up an hour ago and hasn't moved since. Sunlight is streaming through an open window, his husband is fast alseep beside him, and Baby hasn't woken up yet. It's just about perfect. Most mornings, Phil has up and gone by now...Clint scoots a little closer, throws an arm around his husband's sleeping form, and rests his forehead against the nape of Phil's neck. There's a vague warning in the back of his head, some discomfort that he should probably pay attention to, but he's too sleepy to care. A lazy morning in bed with his husband is a rare luxury. No Agents here, not today. Just Clint and Phil. This is their last day off together before Baby comes; might as well enjoy the extra sleep while they can...

When Clint swims back to consciousness again, Phil is awake. He's propped up on one elbow and skimming through a CONFIDENTIAL file (there are always several scattered around the apartment). He shifts, sensing that Clint is awake, and looks around.

"'Morning."

"Mmhg." there's a 'good morning' in there somewhere. Clint rubs his eyes. "Wh' time izzit?"

"Just past 10:00." Phil shuts his file and slides it onto the nightstand. Then he turns onto his back. "How's the kid?"

"Quiet, for now." he cradles his belly with one hand. It's riding ridiculously low; has been for a while now. That shouldn't be a surprise, considering he's 38 weeks, but it feels like Baby is almost between his knees. Forty weeks can't come soon enough. Phil tucks his head under Clint's chin, and he smiles. "Hey."

"Hi." Phil sighs. It turns into a half-hearted grumble, and he nestles even closer. "I should probably go get some breakfast..."

"But?"

"I'm comfortable, and you're warm. And I don't want to move."

Clint snorts. "Go get food, you sap. I'll still be here." Phil's only response is another grumble. Clint gives him a playful shove. " **Go.** "

His husband relents, finally, and climbs out of bed. "Want anything?"

"Nah, I'm not hungry." Clint sinks back into the pillows once Phil has left the room. It's nice to be comfortable for once. Or at least as comfortable as you can be when so much of you is sore. His eyes are growing heavy again; he lets them drift shut, and before long he's dozing. But that warning is still there, getting more and more persistent- until suddenly he knows exactly what it is. He snaps out of his doze and sits bolt upright. "Phil??" he calls, a little louder than he meant to. The distant kitchen sounds abruptly stop, and footsteps race down the hall.

"Clint? What's wrong?" his husband bursts into the room just as he's swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Help me up. Quick."

Phil does as he's told, and Clint immediately makes a beeline for the bathroom. He hears Phil shuffle back down the hallway as he shuts the door. This is one thing about pregnancy that he won't miss: having to pee every five minutes. Baby has perfected the art of kicking him squarely in the bladder. He does his business, but just as he's washing his hands he's struck with a sense of something not right. It's the same kind of feeling he gets during a mission, when he knows they're being watched; an expectant sort of dread. He freezes. A minute ticks by, and another...nothing happens. He almost laughs. "Getting nervous, Barton?" he chides himself, reaching for the towel.

That's when it happens. Something deep inside him shifts just a little, pauses. Then there's a faint 'pop' and before he can process what's happening, a spreading wetness is moving down the inside of his legs. For a moment he just stares, dumbfounded and a little annoyed. "So that's how it is, huh?" he mutters, to no one in particular. Somehow he gets the door open and walks, slowly and gingerly, back down the hall.

"Hey, Phil...?"

"Hey, what?" Phil looks up from his toast.

"I, uh-" Clint swallows hard. Fear is trying to catch up to him. "I think our day off just got cancelled."

It takes a moment for Phil to process this. He looks Clint up and down. "Jesus, Clint..." he crosses the kitchen in three long strides. "Are you having contractions?"

"I don't know. Maybe." his back's been killing him since last night...were those contractions? What are contractions supposed to feel like? Clint leans on the doorframe; suddenly his center of balance seems way off. Nothing feels right. "I'm...I'm gonna call Bruce." at least Bruce will know what's going on. Someone has to. He wobbles his way across the room to the phone. Now that his water's broken, he swears he can feel bone grinding on bone with every step. But he makes it, and circles his hips absently while the phone rings.

"Dr. Banner speaking."

"Bruce? It's Clint."

"You're up early. Is everything alright?"

"Yeah. No. I mean-" get it together, Barton. "I'm in labor."

"Contractions?"

"Not yet. I mean, not that I've noticed. But my water just broke."

"How long ago?"

"Two minutes. Maybe less."

A considering pause. "Alright, I'm on my way."

"Thanks, Bruce." the line's already gone dead. Clint drops the phone back on its receiver and turns around to find his husband waiting.

"And?"

"He's on his way." Clint steadies himself on the counter. The reality of what's happening - what's going to happen - hasn't quite sunk in yet. He casts a smile down at his belly, then another at Phil. Phil's eyes crinkle as he sends one back.

"C'mon. Let's find you some dry clothes."

\--

Even clothes are a challenge these days. Especially now, with his sense of balance thrown off. It's a two-man balancing act just to get out of his sodden pajama pants and into dry ones. And halfway through the latter, his back flares up again just to spite him.

...Except it's more than an ache this time, he realizes. It's focused, purposeful. And it has **teeth** : the pain is so sharp, he has to hang onto Phil to keep from falling over. Phil guides him to the bed and he gratefully sits down.

"Contraction?"

"Mm-hm." Clint shuts his eyes. So this is what it feels like...ten seconds pass. Twenty. Then the tension bleeds away as suddenly as it came and he can think again. He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. The mattress jostles under him as Phil sits down.

"...So. What do you want to do?"

Clint arches his back as much as he's able, stretching away the last of the tension, then gets to his feet. "I'm gonna walk around for a bit."

"Want me to come with you?"

"I'm not leaving the apartment or anything, Phil." Clint smiles lopsidedly and makes his way out of the bedroom.

He makes two full circuits of the apartment before he senses another contraction building. It feels a little different this time, working its way around his belly as well as his back. He stops as it sinks its teeth into him and leans on a convenient wall, muttering a curse into the paint. This one is worse. Baby's not wasting any time. When he comes out of it 20 seconds later, there's a familiar presence next to him.

"You're making good time." his husband says gently. "That was only twelve minutes."

"Yeah, tell me about it." Clint leans away from the wall and into Phil. "Dunno if I'm excited or scared out of my mind..."

"Maybe a little of both?"

"Maybe." he lets out a shaky laugh. "Can't imagine doing this with anyone else, though."

Phil smiles then, and kisses him. It's a slow kiss, one that speaks volumes without having to say a word. They break apart only when the creak of the front door and a pair of footsteps heralds Bruce's arrival. The doctor pads into the room; Clints smiles as nonchalantly as he's able, which probably isn't much. Time to get this show on the road.

 

    ~☆~                                           


	2. Chapter 2

"Goddamn..." Clint releases his grip on the armrest and tries to rub some circulation back into his fingers. It's been hours. The finish line is still out of reach, but the contractions are punishing. It's taking everything he's got just to keep his head above water.

"That was just under three minutes." says someone. Maybe Bruce, maybe Phil. "You're doing good."

Clint nods absently. That's not 'good'; 'good' is being done with this whole ordeal and having his son in his arms. Right now everything hurts, from his shoulders down to his legs, he's thrown up at least twice, and he's exhausted. This is not 'good'. Looking down at his belly, he drags a hand through his hair. "Any time now, kiddo. Whenever you're ready."

"Hm?" Bruce looks up from rummaging in his bag.

"Nothing."

Phil wanders in from the kitchen with a glass of water, which he sets on the endtable next to Clint. "How you doing?"

"Hurts. Pressure's still sticking around."

"That's good." Bruce chimes in. "Means he's dropped."

Clint doesn't answer. Everything's good right now, according to Bruce...he grabs hold of the armrest. Pressure's building again. "Phil..."

"I'm here." their old, beaten-up leather footrest has been Phil's perch for the last few hours; he takes his place again and takes Clint's hands in his own. "You got this, Barton."

Clint's not so sure. The pain and pressure's just getting worse with every contraction. He grits his teeth and clamps down on Phil's hands and some part of him is vaguely sorry for that, but the rest of him is hurting too much to care. Coming out of it, he realizes that the moaning he heard was actually coming from him. But he can't bring himself to care about that either. He sits, limp around his belly, until he can breathe enough to speak.

"Can we...I wanna go in the bath." he remembers hearing, somewhere, that it can help with the pain, and he'll take whatever help he can get. Phil nods.

"Sure thing. Bruce?" he gets up and heads for the bathroom, and Bruce takes his place. This is a little awkward.

"Don't worry, I won't try to hold your hands." Bruce smirks.

"Even if I ask nicely?" Clint smirks right back. At least that part of him is still functioning. He gets a small chuckle from Bruce, but nothing more than that. They both lapse into silence to wait for the next contraction. The rushing of the bathtub faucet provides a pleasant white noise, just enough to be distracting. Clint finds his eyes drifting shut. But not for long - two more contractions come and go before Phil reappears. Standing up is harder than it should be; it takes both Bruce and Phil to help him up and into the bathroom. But once he's there, it's a different matter entirely. He disrobes - again, with some help - and climbs into the bath and oh, he should have done this sooner. The pain isn't gone, not completely, but there's less of an edge. He sighs deeply, and hears Phil chuckle.

"Better?"

"Mm..." he swishes one hand idly though the water. There's another contraction starting but he's doing his best to ignore it, at least for a moment. At least until it comes to a peak and he can feel himself tensing up, reaching for something to hold onto. "Okay, ow, holy **shit** -" it can't have been two minutes already, it can't. His muscles are all bowstring-tight; the pressure building in his hips is unbelievable. The water may have taken the edge off the pain, but it seems to have kicked things up a notch as well. He groans and draws his knees to his chest, trying to open himself up, trying to relieve some of that pressure, but it doesn't help much.

"Looks like we got you in here just in time." says Bruce somewhere in the distance.

Whatever. Clint can't bring himself to care about that, or anything else beyond his own body. This pain is absolutely fucking everywhere, he can't get out. He reaches out blindly, finds something familiar and solid, and hangs on like a drowning man to a life preserver. Phil's voice is in there somewhere but it's unintelligable until the contraction lets go.

"You're doing great, Clint, I'm so proud of you."

Clint opens and shuts his mouth a few times, trying to say something in response. He can barely even think straight, let alone form a coherent - oh god, another one already. Can't get a break. He arches his back away from the pain and braces his feet against the wall of the tub. The pressure is back, ten times worse; there's a goddamn boulder between his legs trying to force its way out. And Bruce must pick up on the change too because he's leaning down into Clint's field of view, trying to get his attention.

"Clint. It won't be much longer 'till you're ready to deliver; we should get you back to the bedroom."

Well, Clint's not in a position to argue much of anything, so he just nods. "'K." He sits up and lets Bruce and Phil lift him, but that's when everything happens at once. The moment he's upright, something shifts into place and this is it. It's happening. "Let go let go, put me down-" he wrenches out of their grasp and splashes back in. Immediately he props himself up on the rim of the tub - ignoring the water sloshing over the sides - spreads his knees as far apart as he can, and gives in to his body's command to push. Nothing else matters now beyond just getting this baby out, getting it over with. He can already feel the head coming, just about splitting him in half, but the pressure has eased up just slightly and that's encouragement enough to keep going. Another contraction, and another; the noises he's making would embarrass the hell out of him any other time. But it's progress, finally, if the burning is anything to go by. He reaches down under the water as the contraction ends, and his breath hitches when his fingers brush against the curve of a scalp. He leans back and lets himself fall until he bumps against tile, and then holds himself there, bracing his feet on the opposite side. His body is stretching impossibly wide, even as he pulls his legs up and back, grunts and groans into yet another push. Fuck, it hurts. But even that becomes secondary when he reaches down again and feels his son's head slide free of his body. He lets out a groan of relief. For a moment, the world comes back into focus around him. Phil is still at his side; Bruce is saying something he can't understand. He's still too deep inside his own head to pay much attention.

Everything sort of slows down after that. A deep calm descends on the little room. Clint uses the brief lull to collect his thoughts. Then, when the next contraction hits, he cups Baby's head with one hand and bears down. His body stretches even wider around the shoulders; the arms emerge, then the torso and then finally, finally, he's lifting his son out of the water and up to his chest. "Oh my god. Oh my god, Phil-" he grins crazily, giddy with relief and adrenaline and the sound of his son's first cries. And Phil is right there, at Clint's side where he's always been, and Clint's never seen him smile so big. He leans in and brushes his fingers against Baby's head, down to the tiny shell of his ear. Clint takes advantage of this and kisses him, clumsily. "Phil, we did it." he breathes.

"You did it." Baby thrusts one little wrinkled foot into the air. Clint catches it, strokes the sole with his thumb. "What's his name?"

"Alexander." says Clint, quiet but sure. "Alexander Coulson."

"Not Barton?"

"The world has enough Bartons."

Phil shrugs that one off and smiles down at the baby instead. "Welcome to the world, Alexander."

~oOo~

**Author's Note:**

> If you like the story so far, please leave a comment- I'd love to hear from you!


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